Dragons! Dragons! Burning Bright
by Konsla
Summary: If you're going to be a Targaryen, best to be a queen, and if you're going to be a queen, best to be The Queen of Dragons. However, holding the throne against old cranky lords and vile women all while keeping the Targaryen madness at bay may be more than she signed up for. AU btw rating may go up, some show elements. Targaryen oc
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own a song of ice and fire or game of thrones.**

They're out there.

Sinning on the streets covered in steel husks to crispen their seed-coated flesh. Milling through shanty homes, burning fleas with blood and fire they do not own.

The man in brown woven robes with laden cold grey chains whispered in his ears to open the gates. Maester, medicine man, a man of skin wrinkled by age and not by fire. And now the gates are opened and the lions are running to make the dragon cave their den.

Pious won't save him; only fire will.

His nails dig into his own watered milk skin. Paler than it used to be. Golden honeyed undertones have long left his thinning fat; leaving the uncooked crust lumpy and blanch in his middle years. Unkept, his nails have long overgrown, splitting on the once smooth surface shedding dying scales. They draw blood from his palms and he presses it to the Iron Throne dripping off the melted blades like knights in battle.

' _Fire and Blood. Burn them all.'_

He repeats these words; a crazed mantra as he is Armida. The Crusaders are coming, on the backs of golden steeds and unscratched armor. They will cook in the city as with all the little people, only the dragons will not burn. When the palace becomes flames, green flames, like a great iron melting pot, he will stand; a little Nacy Candle withering in the flames. His skeleton braided cotton and his blood a melting wax.

His smallest child will live. Wrapped in ply cotton, ribbed linen, and spider silk; she lay at bay on Topheth's bed on her seventh summer burning from twenty torches and twenty candles.

' _Dragons cannot burn.'_

Skin black and clothes ash, but pull off the chard and see a living, breathing child.

But the fire is waning and a voice, not unlike that of crackling ice, whispers in his ear.

' _Burn them all.'_

Milk skims over violet bulbs and the fire bringer sees ice.

Cold blue hands, horned white crowns and snow in the throne room. A thin layer of it covered the ground; it wasn't enough to obscure the red stone underneath but it was sticking. He threw a torch to the white sheet but crystals still stuck.

'Burn them all.'

It would not burn. The frozen liquid and the freezing iron. Hard against his palms now and the blood turned to a crystal slush painting red stones redder.

A boy by his side, thin but thickly clothed. Sheep woolen vests with no dye and simple stitched patterns of branches and leaves. Skin of tobacco leather, orange as the heat of flames and thick from physical work.

The boy had a smart face, familiar with fire as his hand was touched by flames; the skin wrinkled with white peaks of tissue sticking up like the tops of mountains.

Aerys beckoned him with the wave of a hand. Bending his head in close to the smaller boy and letting the wool vest soak his bloodied hand, he whispered a secret message.

'Burn them all.'

To anyone else it would have been the same crazed sentence he muttered every day, but the boy knew it's secret meaning, and headed to the dungeons with a golden knight trailing after.

Aerys moved back towards the throne. Dropping candles like crayons to melt the invisible ice.

It crawled up pillars to the ceiling, to the sky; reaching it's frost fingers up smooth clay walls encasing knights stuck in stone under blue glass. The throne of iron glowed white and he moved with a flaming stick across the ground.

This is how Ser Jaime found him. Dancing with the stick of fire and rubbing it against the bare ground leaving black scorch marks, not unlike the day he burned the Starks.

Dragon skulls lined the room hollow black eyes lighting in the midst of ice and fire. But Jaime didn't see the ice, he didn't hear the whispers or the brown haired boy with white eyes and black crows. Jaime only saw the fire.

Then Aerys looked to him; his face set between a smile and grimace leaving pointed white teeth sticking from the thin single line which marked his lips. "Burn them all."

He spoke it once, not as a mutter but as a command. Similar to when he told it to the servant boy but Jaime didn't like the secret meaning.

The concealed message, which, asked for wildfire and churned lions, a churned town.

So, Ser Jaime made no movement. His golden gloves covered in red from the boy who lifted barrels of wildfire. Complimentary to the green liquid slushing against the side of round wood in the servant's clumsy manner; even more so when Jaime ran his sword through him.

Then Arey's looked back to the snow. Wide lilac eyes burning the glistening white.

' _Burn them all._ '

It's not a command this time. It's not, but the golden boy moves as if it is, his silver sword lodging between the fifth and fourth ribs of the king.

'Burn them all.'

Arey's dies before the senseless mutters cease, in a valley of fire and ice.


	2. Chapter 1

**Okay, this is not the fic for book puritians, there are some show elements I do** **genuinely like, for example, I think Dany's immunity to fire is pretty cool, and I like the simplification of some plot lines. I was going to put this on game of thrones, and maybe I'll change it later, but I will be using more book information then what happens in the show. OMG, I'm sorry it took so long to update. I had this done when I published the first chapter but then like, I don't know, I was never satisfied with it, but I hope it turned out okay and that I didn't make too many mistakes.**

Chapter 1 - Jaime

"Warming my seat?"

Jaime rose his eyes up from his sword. It was drawn across his knees, the drying blood a thin paste over smooth steel but it was still dripping wet on its underbelly. Every minute or so the blood would gather at the lowest point and another drop joined the forming puddle on the floor; synonymous to the fallen king who lay mangled at the bottom of the rungs leading to the towering sword skewed chair. His white hair, grossly overgrown, crawled over patterns of simply shaped dragons, bearing triangle heads and glistening gem eyes. The mosaic patterns told the tale of Aegon's concur, and changed in designs as new kings came in. Bealor had visions of the seven; they had told him to turn the floor and the entire castle to a religious momento. When Aegon V gained the throne he recreated the dragon memorial, with the influence of his siblings and father. Aerion, in particular, disliked the negligence of their dragon history, a great admirer of Meagor the cruel and all things grandiose.

Jaime thought the castle would look better decorated in lions. The golden sort with long curling manes and pearl peeled teeth.

Aerys would roll in his grave at that notion. Not that he was, the king's was still very much dead. His hands tucked under his belly so Jaime could no longer see splitting twisting fingernails or long pallid fingers. When he was alive they moved like a lyre performer, glassing over taut horse strings ghost-like and frothy. He never played like Rhaegar, but his hands danced when he spoke, it was the only graceful part about him. Jaime thought those hands were too pretty for a man, and maybe the king did too as frequently they were hidden under long houppelande sleeves. Jaime's own hands held some femininity. His fingers had reached out to the fallen king at first from sheer wont but he did not touch the man after killing him. He only pressed his eyes back into his skull until they stayed shut.

The king's kin met him now. A girl, barely ten and two. She stepped forward with all the grace a child can muster. The clicking of metal sounded on each movement, _clicking_ , _clacking_ and _ticking_ in his head as the steel parts kissed.

It was Targaryen armor, grey, ugly Targaryen armor. A full circle displaying a three-headed dragon embedded on the breastplate. Sticking out a little more than an inch in the thickest parts with red accents on the periphery; a sign of amiable wealth. It was similar to what he saw Rhaegar adorned with before he left, but smaller, meant for a child or perhaps a dwarf like Tyrion.

 _That was unlikely_

He had never seen many dwarves besides his brother; most families killed them at birth. He knew at least some part of father wanted too.

Under the plate laid a shirt of mail; he could see it in between the parts of her armor, and she wore a full skirt of it underneath, with just a slimmer of a blanch kirtle sticking out.

She had her helmet off, and the was how Jaime recognized her. He had never spent much time with the princess; for she never spent much time with her father.

King Aerys didn't like people around, touching him, or with swords nearby; his kingsguard being the exception. Paranoia haunted the king after his half-year in Duskendale. He wasn't part of the kingsguard then, rather a squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall. Jaime had learned from fellow knights about the king's habits and learned to accept it after many nights filled by Rhaella's screams.

He had always believed Aery's daughter to be a bit strange. Not in the same way as Areys, more meek, and creepy about it. Though he never voiced his thoughts as Ser Arthur Dayne was found of her as was her eldest brother Rhaegar.

But that was a different time.

And now she was the only Targaryen alive in the Red Keep.

"You're welcome, princess." He said; returning the initial quip with a dip of his head.

He rose languishingly, drawing to a lazy stand with his sword dipping in the air. It wasn't an auspicious situation; he, a kingsguard sitting on the Iron Throne with the very man he was supposed to protect dead at his feet.

Haphazardly, he began to stumble down the steps; two at a time in his haste with his sword releasing droplets of blood along the way.

He had expected to meet a rebel, or his father, not the Princess. She was supposed to be with Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys halfway to Essos by now.

Once his toes touched even ground, the young princess took a step forward less than an inch away. Her chin tilted up from her shorter stature, and violet eyes were almost squinted, searching for something in his appearance. Jaime felt self-conscious from her gaze. He was still embarrassed someone from the royal family found him. He was planning a grand reveal in front of some rebel, maybe even his own father. Although, perhaps the princess was better than Tywin finding him now that he thought of it.

"Queen now, actually." She said, breaking the silence. Jaime could feel the surprise taking his face, eyes widening and brows raising before lowering in thought. She examined his face, looking for signs of protest, and he gave it to her weakly.

"Viserys is next in line," Jaime said.

"Viserys already had his rule." She told him. "The first one over princess Rhaenys." Inaerys popped her knee, shuffling her helmet which was between the pit of her elbow and her waist. It was a great big thing in the shape of a dragon's head, painted red with her house sigil. Then she broke eye contact for a moment of thought. "And Princess Rhaenyra almost became Queen." She ended on, elaborating her claim to the throne. It seemed to assure her well enough because she then moved on from his form pulling a great big rope of cotton behind her.

"You killed my father." She stopped as she saw the body, and Jaime whipped back to meet her face, his sword scraping as it slides on the floor. At her forlorn look, Jaime broke eye contact. He does not feel guilty, that man was going to kill the whole city. At least he tells himself that.

Oath's have made him do a lot of things he hasn't liked, and he has never protested, but this time his morals prevailed, and he has survived for it, the whole of the Red Keep has survived for it.

"Clk" Inaerys clicks her tongue; it breaks the silence. Such a small sound and Jaime looks back to see a familiar smile taking stage over her lips. "It's alright; don't look so fucking glum. The war is over."

He's taken aback at her sudden forgiveness and thinks maybe she had a worse relationship with the man than he thought.

Her steps are faster now and Jaime can feel his heart beat as she approaches sword hanging at her waist by an oxblood leather strap. He's wondering if she's going to kill him; if her previous words were just some sort of trick.

But instead of slicing him in half as he feared she hands him the cotton rope. "You're Queensguard now." She then turns to the closest pit of fire and pulls out a handful of coals. They spill through her fingers like a Lannister with gold coins and Jaime wonders how she's not withering in pain. Then she moves to the unoccupied throne and layers the black rock at the base.

"Pri-Your Grace, what are you doing?" Jaime, the white cotton rope still in hand, looks back to the self-proclaimed Queen, whose fishing more coals from the iron pits. The fire not burning her greedy hands.

"Are you questioning your Queen?" She doesn't look back, and Jaime thinks she's serious before her head rolls over with a sly smile. "I'm jesting Jaime." _no familiarities, no Ser._ It makes him wonder if she doesn't believe he can be a Knight after the murder of her father, but then again she just proclaimed him as her Queensguard.

"I'm simply dramatizing my appearance, you could say." Inaerys grabs the cotton from him, her hands hot from dipping in the fire and they sizzle against the soft rope, strands of smoke rising on contact. Then she moves to arrange it around the sites of coals spreading on the steps to the throne. From her belt, she draws a lamp of oil. "Stand back." That's the only warning she gives before setting the throne ablaze.

Jaime turns to look at her once more. _Is she crazy? Does she intend to burn the rebels like her father?_ It's a haunting thought. He'd incapacitate her rather than kill her if it comes to it.

"Don't worry it won't melt." She chuckles looking at Jaime's expression. And he merely bites the inside of his cheek; he wasn't worried about it melting, hadn't even considered it till she mentioned it.

"No, that would take dragon fire." She continues, speaking soft but he catches it as she bends to Aerys body; plucking his fallen crown and sitting it on top her own head.

"A little big." She shrugs. The crown indeed is oversized, tipping off her head till she pushes it back to meet the base of her neck. "Think I'll grow into it?"

Jaime doesn't answer, it's too surreal.

Princess, no Queen Inaerys now, walks through the flames licking the nicked iron stairs to the prickly throne. The journey is long as the oversized walkway leads at least ten feet above the floor. Her mail skirt trails heavily behind her, kicking up the growing flames as it drags against the iron beneath. The kirtle, her clothes underneath, begins to burn and a thick smoke leaks from her armor.

When she finally arrives at the seat, she sits upon a flaming throne her father burning at her feet. Behind her, the swords look enormous, much more so than when Aerys sat in there. It makes her look perhaps even more intimidating than before.

Her skin stays smooth.

"Dragon's blood." She said noticing his face, and gives in a cocky sort of smile like some dog when they turn their heads with open mouths.

Jaime feels as if this showing is the strongest validation of her claim. He wonders if that's why she did it, besides pure shock value, or _dramatizing_ as she put it.

"I do hope these flames don't go out before anyone arrives." Inaerys settles on the hard metal. Shifting at first to get in place, but the sharp ' _ssshck'_ of metal on metal soon disappears. From his brief time sitting on it he wasn't comfortable; even with his cloak under him.

"By then I'd be half naked. If people didn't take me seriously before, I doubt they would then." Inaerys interrupts his thought with her own and chuckles at the idea. Jaime allows for the scenario to play in his head, it would indeed be very embarrassing for the new Queen.

But they don't have to wait long for further company.

The quiet wolf comes first, riding upon a brown palfrey which rises in fear at the fire. Stark has to dismount before entering the throne room, and the steed nearly throws him off in fright.

Inaerys had had her helmet on, no doubt grinning under it at the situation.

"Who are you?" Eddard Stark, his hair sticking to his face, which, is increasingly sweating by the flames. It's lighter than his older brother's, and Jaime can't help but look to the spot where he saw the Starks die. It had been hot in the throne room that day too, and Jaime himself is feeling a bit baked standing at the start of Inaerys fire.

"The Rightful Heir." She proclaimed loudly from under her helm and distant from where the young Stark stands. Her hands move to take off the helm now, shaking her white Targaryen hair to her shoulders from their entrapment in the dragon head. It falls like melting silver, pooling at ridges as the frayed curls regain some form. She tilts her head to Lord Stark's frown.

"And Aerys?" He asks, and her eyes move to the burning flesh on the castle floor. Stark's frown deepens, making him look older. "You killed him?"

"Lannister did." She admits it easily and Jaime suppresses a flinch as Lord Stark's grimace moves to him. Heavy eyes of disappointment boring into his own eyes.

' _He doesn't understand. I had to do it.'_

Horse hooves filled the hall announcing the arrival of Robert Baratheon. His stature is massive in his armor. Jaime had seen the man on occasion; the latest being at the Tourney at Harrenhal. His face had been a stewed-beet red when Rhaegar gave Lyanna the winter rose crown, dripping in a rage-induced sweat. He was a vision that day, brutish as he puffed up in the stands, clearly distinguishable in the congested crowds from sheer size. That whole day had been a picture. He didn't know where the little princess went, but princess Elia sat still on the royal stands, the pale form her fragility dipping down into her open chest from the yellow dornish gown, and a single hand lay on her pregnant stomach. A thousand eyes looked to her stomach, viewing _her_ and _her_ unborn child with the same bafflement as Jaime.

Now Rhaegar was gone, leaving his wife for the Stark girl and bringing the livid stag to the Iron Throne. Robert wore a helm of false antlers, it enunciated his height, bringing the already large man up another foot. In a single hand, he held a Warhammer, spiked on the end, as pointed as the Iron Throne but sharper from clever whetstones and frequent use. When he drew close to stand by the Stark Jaime can smell the scent of leather and blood wafting over the wall of heat separating them.

"We'll the whole party's here now." Inaerys raises her eyes to meet the newcomer. A hostile Baratheon and Jaime drew his sword.

"You will die." Robert hoists his war hammer in the air, the brute of a man being the only one in the room who possess such strength. His brow is deep as it shadows his eyes. A great line between the two caterpillars, as he releases his rage.

"Why pray tell?" She asks earnestly but has drawn her double swords moving in a familiar stance that Jaime has seen before.

"For Lyanna." He says simply still moving forward. Feet heavy and fast as if this is another battle in the war. But it's not, women don't fight wars like that.

"You already killed my brother haven't you?" She knows the answer but mentions it anyways. "And his sire has died as well if that brings any consolation." She motions to the past king. "We have no quarrel, bend the knee and swear fealty. I am Queen now."

"Is Viserys not the rightful heir?" Lord Stark said, Baratheon is stuck in thought and no longer on the verge of attacking. Jaime thinks back to when he first asked the same, and wonders if she'll cite history once more.

"Perhaps, but he's not here, I am." Inaerys raises a single brow to Lord Stark, daring to deny her right to the throne. He doesn't and Baratheon takes another step closer, ahead of Stark now. Jaime tightens his grip on his sword and tenses his muscles.

"I will kill every last Targaryen whore," Baratheon tells her. "And stick your shit-silver head on a spike outside these walls."

"And then what? Take the throne?" Inaerys takes a moment to laugh, it's airy and false; Jaime thinks its a gesture of bravado. " You?" She continues. "You'd eat, drink and fuck yourself to death." Her laugh has left and her arms turn to sewing string limply holding the double swords, but her expression has steeled mirroring the facade Rhaella would often wear in the mornings.

"There is no other in Westeros fit to rule but I." She took a step forward-looking to the seething Baratheon. "So I will."

There's a moment of silence, and Jaime almost thinks Robert will back down until the brute speaks once more.

"This war is not over until all the Targaryen's are dead."

"You're war was with Rhaegar, not with the entirety of the Targaryen dynasty." Her arms tightened for an impending attack. "Do you believe family should pay for their relative's faults? If so why don't you start with the slaying of the entirety of Westeros?" Her voice is angry and she takes a step down from her throne. "After I will you murder Dorne's royal family for marrying Elia to Rhaegar? You've already killed her, haven't you? I couldn't really tell, the body didn't resemble a human when I found it." Her voice hissed with the fussing fire, spitting against the slick sides of swords and slimy charcoal. Her sword a glowing pale orange in heat, and her armor a darkening red. "Did her little children's Targaryen blood warrant such death?"

Stark looks disturbed by this, but Baratheon doesn't falter.

"You may have fought in the war Baratheon, but it's women who win them," she told him. "It's a woman who sits on the throne, and it will be a woman who impales your thick skull if you stay in her way." She spoke in third person raising her sword to eye level. The end was singing a funny little ballad, spoken through the flares of heat and tethering up and down like a stick in play. "You're either on my side or not." Precariously, she moved down till she was only two steps from the same ground as Baratheon; her ethereal appearance diminishing as she lost height. Two single lines of a dying blaze measly protecting her from the warrior. Jaime had no doubt that Baratheon's Warhammer could reach her now.

Would one hit be enough to slay the young Queen? Jaime thought Baratheon would have to hit Inaerys on the head to kill her. He'd have to allow the flames to lick the hems of his steel faulds and the sabaton over his toes to reach the crown. Jaime moved in suit, his armor sounding bell-like to that of churches and laughing children but it did not draw attention to him.

No, the would be Queen held every eye. Her mouth moved slowly, opening once or twice to say something before snapping shut with a clack and a snap.

Smiling in mirth as she stewed through her vocabulary once more; cherry-picking terminology and jargon with the diligence of an herb sifting maester. Then her mouth opened, forming a soft triangle to give a silent 'Ah-ha' and then voiced the very words she displayed throughout her apprehension. "Choose wisely."

The stag's face twisted. Nose flaring and face downturned, ready to butt heads. His hand tightening on the obese hammer and raising it from its lull on the ground.

Inaerys hopped back a bit. Twiddling to a comfortable fighting stance with her sword whipping through the hot air and nipping the tips of yellow on ahead. Her tongue darted to chapped lips and her eyes reflected the light.

Jaime moved forwards, the back of his calves burning in his armor. A new slew of sweat arose on his skin, pumping through widening pores and clumping the slurry into crannies between the braids of mail.

' _I'm going to die.'_

He thinks. The same man who stands before him killed Prince Rhaegar, by no means a slouch in swordplay.

' _I'm going to die.'_

The thought echoes once more as Baratheon raises his Warhammer then thunders it down to the young princess's form.

Lightning quick, Jaime intercept; barely holding Baratheon's force on the steel.

Both hands now hold the single-handed longsword against Robert's Warhammer. He can't hold it for more than a few seconds before springing back, heels hitting the start of the coals. They began to sear but he doesn't have time to think of the pain as the Warhammer beats again, turning and twisting to catch the nimble knight. Jaime can't feel his sword in his hand as he evades Robert's barrage. His muscles became bone and his skin taut; everything in him is alive, he was made for this, but it didn't feel good.

The balance of life and death became a tethering scale, and while Jaime had gold the Baratheon had put his mighty palm on the curved pan, and dragged it down to the base of the floor.

He's not meant to fight such a brute who uses no sword; he's never done it before.

The steel block slams down on Jaime's blade. He puts a palm on the flat of his sword; the fuller nick digging into his skin. The blade rattled, crackling with an ice-like voice and he grit his teeth together to bear the weight. Robert's own face contorted into deep lines of rage, and Jaime was close enough to see the fare in the cracks of his teeth.

Behind him, he heard Inaerys. Her armor chiming and hissing in an odd consonant. From the start, he had feared she would intervene. The young Princess, now Queen, took many matters personally, but Jaime knew she couldn't outplay the Baratheon, not by herself. However, Jaime was beginning to doubt if he could even weaken the Baratheon for her. And then there was the Stark. He had yet to intervene standing idly in the background conflicted with the present battle.

Jaime sprang back once more; lungs expanding till they hurt in a desperate struggle for air. Robert didn't look tired; his face was wet with a strand of spit leaving his mouth but his body moved with unyielding strength. Jaime was sluggish as he raised his sword. The bone muscles turned to water sloshing inside a flagon made of his own skin. It dipped to the earth, his knees heavy, only his feet stayed solid and kept his body off the floor. Robert raised his Hammer, and Jaime put his sword above his head. He would not be able to dodge in time, but he could parry and slink out of the way once failing to hold the force.

Robert's Hammer began its trip but toppled back as a pallid longsword hit him with the flattened side.

Robert spun at once, his famous fury building behind his eyes as he found the person who interrupted them.

Inaerys rose a brow nonchalantly; Jaime could tell she was annoyed, and perhaps even a bit frightened. They had a staredown, the Baratheon and the Targaryen Queen. But it was neither her or Robert spoke first; instead, it was Eddard, Stark.

"Enough Robert. The war is over." He told him. "Rhaegar is dead."

The Baratheon looked to his best friend, a deeper emotion looming in his eyes.

"She's your sister Ned." Robert's Warhammer dipped down and Jaime released a breath of relief as he laxed his own sword arm.

"She's _my_ sister" Stark confirmed. He looked conflicted, as if he wanted to say, more as if he wanted something, anything to console his friend, but instead, he stayed silent.

Then Robert's placidity melted to rage.

"Kneel then! Kneel to your bitch Queen!" He shouted. "I'm not staying to see you give in to the Targaryen's who took Lyanna!" Robert lifted his Hammer from the ground. His large form swaying from the new weight. Jaime was relieved if not slightly surprised that the Stark took their side.

The Baratheon still looked angry. He spat at Inaerys but it only met the fire and once he turned she let a wide smile file over her lips.

Robert plodded from the room, not once looking back. Leaving only heavy footsteps to fill the silence and the young Queen settled back on her throne to take Stark's pledge.


	3. Chapter 2

The bells were ringing as they always did when a king died. Late, after yesterday's noon, the Silent Sisters had come taking the charred remains of Aerys off to the Great Sept of Baelor where the High Septon would perform the last rites and pray for the King's soul. After this, the body would be burnt once more, this time to ash.

Inaerys burrowed further in her pillows, she had woke early, perhaps in the hour of the Owl, it looked as such when she ventured to the window. Then as dawn rose the bells began and she called her handmaiden, Malle, to the room to help her get ready. The girl stood now, nearly a foot from the bed, watching Inaerys carefully wondering if she went back to sleep or not and wondering if it would be appropriate to wake her if she did indeed fall back asleep. She weighed the options with her two flagons in each hand, one filled with lye water, to act as soap and the other with hot water to wash it out. Eventually, the girl stopped trying to hold them both and sat them on that table while she went to her Queen.

"Your Grace," She asked gently. "Did you fall back asleep?"

Inaerys shifted from under the blankets, peeling them back until her face showed. "No."

She swung her legs to the side of the mattress and shivered when her bare feet hit the stone ground. It was cold, but It helped wake her up.

"Allow me to wash your hair, Your Grace." Malle lifted the lye water flagon and Inaerys let herself be lead away over to an empty bucket in the corner as Malle poured the soap in her hair.

Inaerys closed her eyes while Malle massaged the water into her scalp. It felt nice and warded off the headache she felt coming from yesterday. Kings Landing had been sacked, Robert Baratheon had made several threats and attempts on her life, and the loyalties of many of the Westerosi lords was questionable. In the end, Tywin Lannister pulled his troops back outside of the city walls and the Baratheon ran off somewhere on a temper tantrum after Eddard Stark swore fealty.

Malle ran a towel over the younger girl's wet head and then lead her to a short table to apply oils and comb out the tangles. After she washed her face and put on a wheat bran peeling. Whenever she burned her skin felt especially dry and she now lathered it in rose water and creams. Having done the same last night, it didn't feel as dry as it had when she first felt fire.

"Is Lady Winifry awake?" Inaerys asked Winifry Whent was one of the few ladies in waiting Inaerys had left after Robert Baratheon declared war. She had feared she would leave after house Tully joined Roberts cause, but by then Kings Landing was locked down.

"I believe so Your Grace," Malle answered as she brought over a fresh kirtle.

"Tell her to join me in breaking fast then." Inaerys slipped the simple gown over her head and reached for a red houpeland to tie over it.

"Would you like me to help you dress first Your Grace?" Malle asked, eyeing the loose straps of the dress behind her.

"Yes please, that would be very nice. Thank you." Inaerys relaxed her shoulders as the loose garment suddenly became tight and she fiddled with the hefty sleeves.

Once Malle had left Inaerys went to the door in search of a page or a ward to gather the men she wished to speak to, instead she found Ser Jaime languidly leaning outside her door with a tired expression on his face. She had forgotten he was the only member of the Kingsguard available, although Ser Barristan Selmy had come last night he was still wounded from the battle of the Trident.

"Ser Jaime go rest." She allowed after a moment of thought. His under eyes were a dark purple-blue like a well-rested bruise and the white of his eyes were streaked red. He had been awake all night.

"My Queen, there is no other member of the Kingsguard here."

"None the matter. At the time being, we're in more of an armistice than war." She had always thought it ridiculous how careful her father was, but then again, she was never taken as a hostage in Duskendale for half a year.

"It is dangerous," he said weakly unsure if it was permissible to speak against the new Queen. With Aerys his limit of speech was always made clear, in the sense that he wasn't allowed to speak at all.

"Then send someone from the army. I'll need you tonight, and not dead on you're feet." Inaerys patted his shoulder as she would do to Viserys when father got mad at him. Ser Jaime soon acquiesced giving a slight nod as he went off to fetch a man from the small army Aerys had still gathered in Kings landing. And Inaerys went to find that page.

It might have been the Hour of the Wolf when Inaerys went to join the makeshift small council she had gathered, the sky was dark enough to consider it, yet she could remember dusk being not long ago. There in that stone pillared room sat the three men she had called, Varys, the Master of Whispers, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Tywin Lannister. She regarded him with a cool look in remembrance of her niece and nephew. Then once she took a seat at the head of the table Grand maester Pycelle opened by reviewing the customary tasks and procedures following the death of a king.

"A raven is needed to send to Dragonstone to inform Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys of the King's passing. Mayhaps Princess Inaerys would wish to write these condolences so it may soften the blow. Irrevocably, someone must see to preparing for Prince Visery's coronation."

In the silence that followed Inaerys did her best to quell her anger. It was a difficult task that left her toes curling tight in her Lady Janes, the soft soles krumping under the pinch and corroding the smooth stone beneath. Her hands gripped the fabric of her gown. It was pretty and blue making little waves between her clenched fingers. This morning when she had asked Lady Winifry to dress her; she had done so as she wanted to look especially nice today, and now he was messing it all up making her own hands spoil her dress. That man Pycelle, the damned maester, she knew what he did. Her jaw lifted as her gaze flew to his. White spiffs of hair stuck out near the start of his neck, which, was as leathered as the deep rumples scarred across his face. It must have frightened him because he made a small sound like the squeak of a mouse, and a snag tooth caught the bottom of his lip. Then Inearys quietened her movements till the only sound in the room was that of breathing and the scribe in the corner hastily scrawling down the last of the Maester's words.

"Leave." Inaerys spat, breaking the hush with a flick of her hand and settling her elbows back in the gentle grooves of the warm walnut armrests.

"Pa-pardon?" Pycelle sputtered his mouth agape so much so that Inaerys could count the brown spots marking false teeth.

"If you refuse to acknowledge me as you're Queen, then out of courtesy that you were my father's liege I will allow you to leave this room with your life, permitted, you see to it that you never return to Westeros."

"Your Grace!" Pycelle corrected. "Forgive me as I was simply speaking from the Great Council of 101 AC, whereas the Iron Throne will go to a male heir before a female in the line of succession."

Inaerys frowned. No, no, no she did not want the Great Council to come together for this as if they did she would unlikely be prevailing in her pursuit to the throne. They would choose Viserys, because he was a boy, and not too young that he would be incompetent with her mother the Dowager Queen Rhaella. Then in a few years, she would be married to him and treated like Rhaella was by Aerys. No, she did not want that at all, and she decided then that a Great Council will not be called. However, gathering her wits to prove Viserys's ineligibility proved all the more vexing.

"Aerys did not name an heir." Inaerys began speaking slowly so that her words may change direction if need be. "And the man who killed him has sworn oath to me. The Starks have sworn oath to me, and when I call the rest of the Lords of the seven kingdoms, they will swear oath to me." She was standing now, palms clenched on the sides of the table and an unseeable tremor running up her arms. "Regarding the Great Council of 101 AC, I'd like to refer to Robert Baratheon's Rebellion and later his attempt to take the Throne by force. If it suits you find to it that my liege opened the Throne, and I have now taken to it. This is unequivocal regardless of my previous titles. If Viserys wishes to challenge me, he may, but as of now I am your Queen."

"Yes, Your Grace." Pycelle offered as conciliation. "I will swear fealty to your rule."

"Very well then." Inaerys smiled despite herself, mollified at the submission, although she did not intend for him to keep his position for long. "Then now we shall amend your approach; see to it that you send ravens to every lord in Westeros after this meeting. Summon them here to Kings Landing and spread the news of my ascension."

Pycelle nodded his compliance, a faint rattling of chains filling the air.

"A complete small council must be gathered shortly. Quarlton Chelsted and Rossart are dead, as of now we should divide the treasury. One part should be kept secure in The Iron Bank of Braavos, a second will be used for recompensating war carnage, and a third for bribes and gifts for loyal lords." Inaerys suggested. The Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, was currently with her mother and siblings, as far as she knew. However, she did not want to call him just yet, in the chance that he may tell her mother the news. Instead, she ordered a letter sent to Illyrio Mopatis a suggested by Varys, who spoke then for the first time since the onset of the meeting.

"For now we will prepare to accept these lords as they come. I draw this council to an end today. We will come again in a fortnight." One by one the few occupants of the room agreed and began to file out, all except for Inaerys and the Great Lion who hadn't spoken once in the lengthening hour.

She dared to raise a brow as her violet eyes took in his appearance. Tywin was not a man she saw often despite his time serving as her father's hand. Up close she could see his hairline beginning to recede, and the golden whiskers bordering his face growing in width. Lightly colored age spots speckled the start of his forehead and grew larger on what she could see of his neck. Despite this, he didn't look old, but he looked near nothing like his son. Ser Jaime was waiting outside, Inaerys did not wish to test his loyalties as her father had, and would rather speak as if he had some staunch support for her as Queen rather then how she truly believed he felt. Which, was instead obligatory support of her, or perhaps even one of guilt for killing her father while under oath. Either way, she'd rather have the Lords believe what she said to be the truth.

"Why did you call me here?" Asks Tywin, his hands intertwining on the surface of the table as he leaned forward. The red velvet of his doubled grazing the edge of the treated walnut table and his elbows held fast against its smoothness.

"To discuss your future." Inaerys ventured carefully. She did not wish to test him, yet, she was curious about his manner of speaking, and to how he would approach the ideas she offered.

"And what indeed is that?"

"How do you imagine it?"

"I did not come here to play games, girl."

"Nor did I; I simply wish to understand the meaning behind the sack of Kings Landing." She ignored his insult for she did not yet have the backing of the Kingdom to make any bold moves and could not afford arrogance.

"From what I've gathered, you already know."

"Then why are you alive?"

"What are you implying?"

"That we're on the same side."

"If that were true Baratheon would be on the throne."

"The same side of different coins; neither you nor I wished for Aery's to continue ruling, and Rhaegar was planning his own coup while he was alive." Inaerys elaborated, rather smartly, or at least she believed so.

Her statement was followed by a brief silence; one that made Inaerys worry that she had made a mistake.

"Did you order Jaime to kill your father?"

She was not expecting that, and such a statement nearly lead to her leaping up from her seat in shock.

"No!" Inaerys shouted. Why would she ever do such a thing? Kinslaying was one of the greatest crimes.

"And yet you claimed to stage a coup." Tywin pointed out.

"Yes, I did; however the way things turned out was not anticipated. Though I cannot truthfully say it was unwelcomed." She paused in thought, was Tywin worried about Jaime's crimes? The High Septon would be upset, but Inaerys couldn't be more grateful for what he had done. Rhaegar would have called the Great Council, presumably, if he had survived the battle of the Trident, but he hadn't. At the time Inaerys had begun to believe both she and her father would be slaughtered by Robert Baratheon as well as Elia and her children. Taking the throne was an impulsive decision, but not one she had never considered. There had often been the talk of her becoming queen by marrying Rhaegar, but many disapproved since she was significantly younger. Nonetheless, it wasn't a position she thought herself unprepared for. Stark supporting this had been a surprise and likely saved her life. But ultimately it was Ser Jaime who freed the spot. "Your son will be forgiven and can keep his place in the Kingsguard, or if you wish I will release him from his duty."

"Why do you ask me?"

"Well," Inaerys drew, a smile playing on her lips. "I should consult with you, shouldn't I? After all, I do plan to appoint you as the Queen's Hand."

.


End file.
